And So It Goes
by Mooncombo
Summary: Ch.5-Most likely, the reason I chose to grant Tony’s request was because I knew how desperate he was to help her. TIVA and other memories.
1. Lies We Tell

**A/N: This is a series of one shots based on actual snippets of dialogue on the show. Starts with Jet Lag. It is an experiment for my own amusement and hopefully yours as well, so the POV, style and tense may change depending on how the dialogue moves me. I expect it will be mainly TIVA since they are just so fun to write! I hope you enjoy.**

**The title is borrowed from Billy Joel's song And So It Goes, but this is not song fic in any way. I just like the song and think it's a good title.**

**Tag to Jet Lag 7 x 13**

**Spoilers for Season 7**

* * *

"_Why did you just lie to McGee?"_

"_Why did you lie to Nora?_

_***_

He thanks the street vendor in clumsy French, flashes his famous DiNozzo smile, and makes his way back toward the giant iron structure. She senses his presence before he speaks and turns to look at him over her shoulder. His breath catches as the glow of the orange lights dances off of her features.

Two more steps and his chest skims her back. She sighs and leans back slightly, almost, _almost_ resting against him. Extending an arm around her body he says, "One cup of boring tea for Agent David and one cup of café au lots of lait pour moi. You know, Ziva, coffee is a lot stronger here."

He is rewarded with a sly smile, again over her shoulder. She smirks.

"You will need the extra caffeine if you want to keep up with me tonight, Tony."

"Ooh la la, Ziva, what did you have in mind?"

She spins around to face him, grabs the lapel of his coat and drags his head down to hers.

"Tony," she breathes against the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, Ziva?"

He moves to place his lips on hers. She lets him.

For a moment.

Then she whispers, "Did you know that La Tour Eiffel is painted every 7 years?"

She plants her lips on his again for brief kiss, smiles up at him, then grabs his hand.

"Come on, Tony. You said you wanted to see the sights." She tugs him along, but slows her pace to enjoy the heavy weight of his hand clasped within her own. They stroll around the four strong base pillars of the Eiffel Tower, eventually making their way along the Seine.

He swings her hand playfully. She glances up at him with a warm smile. A genuine smile. _A loving smile. _They are not strangers to intimate acts with each other, but it feels new. Romantic. As if being on a different continent allows for more than mutual comfort and a tumble between the sheets to dull the pain of wounds past. A new start. The beginning of something deeper. Or maybe a continuation of something that had begun but was cruelly shattered by Jenny, by Jeanne, by Michael. By Eli David. By Somalia.

In the beautiful city of Paris, a dark and dirty terrorist training camp does not exist.

Tony tugs on her hand and pulls her body up against his along the brick that protects them from tumbling into the Seine. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he looks at her. _Really looks_. She does not break the spell and returns his gaze. It is hard to reconcile this Ziva with the Ziva that swaggered into the office and announced that she would be a part of their team. This Ziva has scars that occasionally shine in her eyes when she thinks no one is looking.

In the beautiful city of Paris, a broken Mossad assassin never spent time tied to a chair in Somalia.

Leaning toward her, he kisses her once more. Softly, gently. Carefully. She places a hand on his cheek as she explores his mouth with her own. Tony breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against hers. She kisses the corner of his mouth. He can feel her smile against his face. The beat of his heart echoes through her ear as his arms cocoon her body against his chest.

She kisses his chin and he kisses her head and they present to their fellow travelers a picture of loving bliss.

In the beautiful city of Paris, a father does not send his only remaining child to die in the desert.

The Obelisk of the Place de la Concorde looms ahead and Tony and Ziva laugh as they run toward the fountain, pushing and playing with each other. Sitting on the edge of the fountain, the pair huddles together like new lovers to keep warm in the winter night air. Tony rests his arm across her shoulders and Ziva traces patterns with her fingers along his knee.

Eventually she whispers, "It is two in the morning Tony, we really should get back to the hotel." Neither wants to break the spell cast upon them but duty calls and they must get some sleep.

The couch is never discussed as both take their turn in the bathroom, then both climb into the same bed. Tony is wearing boxers and Ziva is wearing pajama bottoms and a tank top. She rolls to face him, places a soft kiss on his chest before resting her head on his shoulder. He is content to hold her and make no demands.

"Tony," she whispers, suddenly feeling insecure.

"Yeah," he whispers back.

"It is not that I do not want to make love to you, it is just that I-" her voice trails off.

"I know, Ziva."

"I am just not ready."

He kisses her head in response and simply repeats, "I know."

Unfortunately, the beautiful city of Paris can only provide a new back drop, not repaint the original canvas of a damaged but not ruined former Mossad assassin.

It does not matter for he will wait. The trip to Paris has been a gift in disguise.

The next morning finds Tony alone, but happy. She has gone for a run and has left him a note. He does not mind her need to regroup in privacy. He knows that her mask will be back in place when he sees her, but he is fairly confident that he can get her remove it once more. He leaves her a note in return and rents a Vespa for last minute sight seeing since he left his camera in his bag the night before.

A/N So I decided to create a scenario to explain why Tony is acting like he had great sex the next morning at the café and why Ziva looks confused by his behavior and yet it seems as though they did share _something_. Not to mention, each of them asks the other why they lied but it seems as though they lied through out the entire episode.

Originally, I had Ziva spilling her guts about Somalia while they were in Paris. Good think I didn't get that posted before Masquerade… =) Thanks for reading.


	2. Blood Splatter

Thanks to all who have read and reviewed. I appreciate all of the kind words!

Disclaimer (which I forgot in the first chapter. OOPS) They do not belong to me and I make no money from writing about them.

Tag to Masquerade 7 x 14

Spoilers for seasons 6 and 7

* * *

"_I have seen firsthand what happens when convenience wins out."_

"_You never talk about it."_

"_What is there to talk about?"_

"_C'mon, Ziva."_

"_What Saleem did was bad enough. Becoming like him would be worse."_

And there it was. I did not mean to bring it up. Tony was right. Things were not so black and white when splattered with red, especially when the red is my own blood.

We processed the scene. Bagged and tagged. Labeled and categorized. Collected more fingerprints than I cared to count. All the while, we carefully avoided the topic of my time spent as a guest in a terrorist camp in Somalia. I have to hand it to him. He wants to ask, to push me, to tip the balance and disrupt the façade. He wants to know why I have not spoken of it. He is wondering what role he should play if and when I ever do choose to tell him what happened. Friend? Partner? Lover? The problem, more for Tony than me, is that he is not sure he actually wants to know what happened.

It is not that he does not care. He does care. More than is appropriate for a partner. Even a close partner. But then we have not been "just partners" in a very long time. Our relationship is complicated. Or maybe it is just that _I_ am complicated. Loving me can not be easy.

I had focused on the blood. My blood. In pools on the ground. I had imagined processing the scene as an investigator. Collecting data. Seeing myself as a black and white crime scene photo. Then I stared at the stains when the liquid had dried into dark crimson. Day after day, until I could no longer distinguish my blood from the blood I had spilled of others. No matter how many drops of my own blood spilled onto that dirty floor, no matter how many times my skin split open, or how many times burns blistered my skin, it felt justified. When he used my body for his own pleasure it somehow felt justified. Atonement for the blood on my hands. Their blood mingled with my own.

As my captivity stretched into weeks, my sanity became more than a little questionable.

In the end, I did not fight him. I _was _him in a prettier package. After all, what kind of monster kills her own brother?

The offspring of a man capable of sending his own child on a suicide mission.

Being tied to a chair in a dark dusty room was a most humbling of experiences. I can not begin to describe in detail what happened in that camp. Not even to myself. Not yet.

I feel Tony behind me. He presses a soft kiss on the side of my neck. A soothing touch. It is the only way he really knows how to comfort me. His gift is his patience. He offers me the sweetest side of himself when we are alone. He makes no demands and for that, I am grateful.

I am no stranger to Tony's bedroom, nor he to mine. Both of us having found comfort and relief in the arms of the other in years past. And while there has always been _something_ between us, something we denied after each encounter, it was never like this. Currently, we are more intimate with each other than we have ever been, even sharing a bed, and yet it has been over a year since we have had sex with each other. I just can not face sex, yet. Tony deserves a medal. I hope to eventually be able to make it up to him.

"I think that's everything, Ziva."

I nod and flash him what I hope is a warm smile. He smiles back.

We pack the car and I make no move to fight him for the rights to the driver's seat. He looks at me for a moment before starting the car. I meet his eye. He wants to ask me again, but does not give in to the urge.

He simply nods, gives me smile and starts the car.

For all of our bickering and teasing, Nora was right. We do make a good pair. We might be broken, particularly me, but we are a good fit.

Several minutes pass before I break the comfortable silence.

"Thank you, Tony. For everything."

After all, loving me can not be easy.

TBC.

***************

A/N: Ok, writing from Ziva's POV was MUCH harder than I anticipated when I started this chapter. I agonized trying to get the tone correct. Hopefully, it worked. Writing in the first person and not using any contractions in very difficult. Hopefully, I didn't miss any. =) As always - thanks for reading!


	3. Silent Understanding

I started working on a scene from Jack Knife, but then I thought maybe Tony would like to have a POV regarding the scene in the warehouse. I see Ziva as very stoic and it seems logical that she would down play everything. I'm letting Tony feel in the gaps a little. I think I might have used a bad word or two.

Disclaimer: Not mine, but I wish they were.

Tag to Masquerade 7 x 14

Spoilers for Season 6 and 7

* * *

_"I have seen firsthand what happens when convenience wins out."_

_"You never talk about it."_

_"What is there to talk about?"_

_"C'mon, Ziva."_

_"What Saleem did was bad enough. Becoming like him would be worse."_

And there it was. That look that softened her features. Showed her vulnerability. Maybe a plea for understanding. Whatever it was, I felt it in my gut. And right now, my gut feels a little like I had some bad sushi for lunch.

Back to work she went. Just like that. Just like she hadn't brought up a topic the entire team had been avoiding like a land mine for months. Just like she hadn't spent the summer in a terrorist camp enduring God knows what. Well, Ziva has always been good at getting the job done. No matter what.

We processed the scene. Bagged the evidence. Snapped the required photos. I stole a glance at her every so often. She concentrated very, very hard on not noticing. Finally, I just stared at her. Childish, I know, but she's used to it.

Finally, she sighs in exasperation. She looks over at me and gives me _that look_ again. So I went back to work. I could push her, trap her, trick her into spilling her guts. She would talk if I pressed hard enough. I am an interrogator, after all.

The problem, well there are so many problems with this scenario really, but the problem I am most concerned about is the aftermath. Maybe if I hadn't seen her face when they removed the bag from her head. Maybe if I hadn't seen the blank look she wore for the entire journey back to D.C. Maybe if I hadn't seen the scars crisscrossing her back. And maybe, maybe, if I hadn't witnessed the severity of her anguish that night in my apartment, I might be willing to push her.

She had only been home a few weeks when she appeared in my apartment in the middle of the night. Yes, _in_ my apartment not _at_ my apartment. How many times can a lock be picked before my key stops working? Rain had been falling for hours, beating against the panes of my windows. I'm not sure what exactly caused me to wake up. Just a feeling, I guess. I grabbed my gun from the nightstand and silently made my way into the living room.

She was dressed in running clothes drenched from the rain, her hair soaking wet and plastered to her forehead. Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing was labored.

"Ziva?" She dropped to her knees in the middle of my living room. I took a step toward her, but she held a hand up as if to stop me. So I stopped.

"Ziva," I whispered again.

She didn't look at me, but simply said, "I can not run."

"You can't run?" I had asked, confused. Finally, she looked at me with that same haunted, lifeless stare she wore on her face when we rescued her in Somalia.

"My body is too weak."

"But it's two in the morning, Ziva. Why were you running?"

But she didn't answer. She didn't move at all. She just continued staring. It was freaking me out a little.

I slowly moved in her direction and knelt beside her still form. Words started tumbling out her mouth as she tried to explain that her body didn't work any more. I didn't understand most of what she was saying because she switched back and forth between languages. I think she was spewing a mixture of Hebrew, French and English.

I have to admit, she scared the shit out of me. I had briefly considered calling Gibbs, but quickly ruled it out. According to Abby, Gibbs wasn't on Team Ziva, yet. Then I considered calling Ducky. At least he was a doctor. The problem with including anyone else in the drama unfolding in my apartment is that Vance had not yet approved her agent status. This would have been baaaad for the psych eval.

So I did what I do best: I made it up as I went along. I practically carried her into my bedroom. I stripped off her wet clothes and wrapped her in a quilt. I hadn't seen Ziva naked in a very long time. Her body was particularly thin, but what was more disturbing were the scars. All over. Everywhere. I sucked in my breath and before I thought better of it, I reached out and gently traced a scar on her shoulder with my fingertips.

"Oh. My God," I barely whispered. That flipped the switch. She started crying. Heart wrenching sobs that shook her entire body. I scooped her up and climbed into bed with her. Immediately, she curled into a tiny ball. I held her until her sobbing stopped and the shaking started. I didn't let go. Finally, she succumbed to sleep, her breath still ragged as I continued to hold her, trying to make sense of what I had just witnessed.

That was the last and only time we discussed anything regarding Somalia. And by "discussed" I mean, she had a meltdown and I just hung around like an idiot trying to do the right thing but secretly worrying that maybe I should call for back up. Neither of us pretended that the episode at my apartment didn't happen, though. We didn't discuss it but we had a silent understanding. Words spoken in looks and touches. Totally chick flick material, but it's the truth. Some may have chosen a different route, but this was Ziva. She has a way of being able to just keep putting one foot in front of the other until things appear to be normal. She's no Princess Buttercup in need of rescue, but then again, I'm no Wesley.

I glanced at her again. She's staring into space and it scares me a little when she looks like that. Coming up behind her, I gently kiss the side of her neck. It's the only way I know to comfort her. It seems to work. Nora was right. We are a good fit.

"I think that's everything, Ziva."

She nods and gives me a small smile. I smile back. Silent understanding.

We pack the car and she doesn't even try to fight for the keys. I look at her again before starting the car. I could ask her. Push her. She might talk. She might tell me what happened. But I chicken out and start the car.

We drive in companionable silence until she says, "Thank you, Tony. For everything."

Loving Ziva David isn't always easy, but it's worth it.

TBC.

* * *

A/N: Just so no one is confused - most of these chapters could stand alone as one-shots, but all of the chapters are based of off dialogue and include the same story arc. For example: I had them behaving romantically in Paris in the first chapter and that story still holds true for the next chapter, et cetera. Just wanted to clarify.

As always thank you for reading. Reviews are always appreciated.


	4. 12 Seconds

Thanks again to all of you that have read and/or reviewed. It is much appreciated! This chapter is completely different from the previous chapters and takes place during Jack Knife when Damon and Ziva are stopping the truck they are supposed to hi-jack. I wrote it in the second person because it seemed fitting for this scene.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Tag to Jack Knife 7 x 15

* * *

"_And you people think _I'm_ crazy."_

_*********_

Twelve.

You remember the press of his lips on your cheek. There is a slight breeze, but it does nothing to cool the heat radiating off of the tarmac. He leaves you standing there. Alone. Unsure. Unsafe. More a father than your own. And he is leaving you behind. You are the ultimate disappointment.

You wanted to call him back, change his mind. You might have begged but you could not. It is not your style. Each step he takes in the opposite direction causes your throat to constrict that much tighter. It's a mistake. All of it. Forcing his hand was never a smart move with Gibbs. And so there you stand. Alone. You will have plenty of time to think about your mistakes. Your sins.

Eleven.

He holds your hand tightly, swinging your arm back and forth like a lover. The Eiffel Tower twinkles in the background and you can pretend, just for a moment, that you are not damaged. When he kisses you, you can forget, just for a moment, the taste of blood and the ripping of skin. When he holds you that night, but does not question your need to wear pajamas, you think that you might just love this man.

Ten.

You remember seeing her reflection in the pool of blood. You had saved her life and in return, she saved yours by bringing you to NCIS. And while she did not know the reason you made that call to plead for the chance to return to American soil, she trusted you enough not to ask too many questions. She gave you a new start. A surrogate family.

And now she was dead. In the back of your mind, you know it was her choice. You followed her orders. And it does not matter. Your eyes burn and there is a lump in your throat. You want to scream for all of the pain and loss you have endured in your young life. And it does not matter. She is still dead. And you were following orders.

Nine.

You never wanted to admit that you cared about him. You never wanted to admit how much it hurt when he stopped coming to your apartment. You pretended that it was just a fling, but you both knew differently. You tried not to hear all of the hushed phone calls and you tried not to play the jealous lover. But then you diffuse the bomb and he looks down your shirt. He tells you that its not worth dying over, but what you hear is _you_ are not worth dying over.

Eight.

You jog his memory. Finally, a sense of recognition plays on his face. You say the words out loud, and he remembers. _Ari killed Kate_. You do not mean to get upset, but you never really cried when he died. When you killed him. _I killed Ari_. He holds you and you feel grateful, but lost. A father's arms offer comfort, but he is not _your_ father.

Seven.

Michael was the last to share your bed-as far as sex is involved. Easier than Tony. Less complicated. It felt off, but you tried to convince yourself it was something, even if you were not sure it was love. He shared your beliefs and citizenship. He understood your background. You had to give it a chance, because really, would you ever be suitable for anyone? You blamed Tony for his death, but even then, in the very depth of your mind in a place too scary to wander, you wondered if maybe Tony was telling you the truth. If Tony told the truth, then it would be the last strike in a life composed entirely of lies.

Six.

You should never have told Abby that you never went to a slumber party as a girl. You could not refuse her as she forced a mock re-enactment of little girl past times. She covered all of her bases - sleeping bags, popcorn, nail polish and movies. You did not want to enjoy it nearly has much as you did, but you can not help yourself. You try not to regret a lost childhood when Abby asks what type of parties children have in Israel. You have to make something up because you can not remember. She does not believe you anyway does not want to spoil the moment.

Five.

You have long since lost feeling in your arms and legs. Your brain is foggy, but you know they will kill you soon. Your skin is ragged and your blood oozes. To keep your sanity, you try to add up the number of hours you have spent tied to a chair. You can not bear to think about what goes on in the hours when you aren't.

The air is hot and the dust threatens to choke your already thirsty throat. You curse your own body a traitor for refusing to die.

Four.

You trap him in the men's room. You owe him an apology but you worry that the words you might compose will not do justice to the remorse you actual feel. But you try anyway because really, in the end, he is the one you trust the most. You owe him your life. It is no small debt, and your emotional checking account is overdrawn but you write the check anyway.

Three.

You show up in his apartment in the middle of the night. Your body has betrayed you by being human. So much left unsaid between the two of you and yet, here you are. The one place you feel safe. You can not be alone, even if it is just for tonight. You try to explain, try to make him understand, but your exhaustion and confusion leave you shaking on the floor mumbling jibberish in a combination of languages.

He carries you to safety, removes your wet clothes and wraps your shivering body in a blanket. Your debt to him increases and you hope you can one day make it right.

Two.

His blood his on your hands. Your own brother. Your heart squeezes every time you see his face in your memory. You wonder if you will ever be able to believe that you did the right thing. You do not regret saving Gibbs, of course, but you wonder what kind of person has the ability to kill her own brother, no matter what the circumstances.

One.

Tony is braced on his arms and his looking down at you with something that looks so very much like love. You smile a small smile and wrap your arms around him as he moves within your body. So achingly slow that you think you might cry. You wonder if there will be a time when you share that with him again. He's proven several times over that he cares, maybe even loves you. That he will wait until you are ready.

Twelve seconds. It takes twelve seconds for the truck to finally comes to a halt in a cloud of dust and burning rubber. You release the breath you did not realize that you were holding. Relief washes through your veins along with a dose of adrenaline. Evidence that you are still alive. And for the first time in a long time, it feels good to be alive.

* * *

N/N: Thank you for reading. I actually tried to time the sequence from the point where Ziva and Damon get out of the truck and in true Hollywood style, it took over 20 seconds which seems really unrealistic. So, I shortened it to 12 seconds. Some of the memories are from the show and some of them are memories I created.


	5. The Charade

A/N - Sorry for such a long delay in updating this story. I have felt less than motivated by recent episodes….until Jurisdiction. I thought maybe McGee should have a little time in the spotlight. Plus, I needed to write this little chapter to bridge the gap to my next chapter.

I don't own anything. Duh.

* * *

Jurisdiction 7 x 18

"_I'm glad I wasn't your Valentine."_

"_So am I."_

I will never understand them. I don't think they have any idea how exhausting it is just to be in their proximity. It's like they have this ability to suck the oxygen out of a room. Being trapped in the van with them is especially fun. On the bright side, when they are consumed with tormenting each other they tend to leave me alone.

They aren't fooling anyone and we all know Tony gave Ziva the Valentine's Day candy. He also gave an identical heart shaped box to Abby. Tony is made up of equal parts genius and idiot. No, actually, he is equal parts genius, idiot and smartass. But I digress.

Giving a Valentine gift to multiple women signifies the insignificance of the gesture. Thus, pointing out how little the giver means to the receiver simply because the candy remains uneaten places more importance on the gift than was originally intended. Therefore, making it painfully obvious - to me if not to Ziva- that the gift was indeed significant. At least the irony is amusing. As I said: Tony is an idiot. Especially when it comes to Ziva.

They have danced this dance for years. Trust me, I've studied them. Every good writer observes the characters around him, and Tony and Ziva provide non-stop writing opportunities. Of course, add Gibbs and Abby into the mix with a little Palmer and Ducky and the opportunities become endless. And a bestseller - although maybe my character study was just a little too close to reality for the comfort of my coworkers last time. Currently, I am wondering just who it is that they believe they are fooling.

Maybe Tony somehow forgot about the night he got drunk and admitted to me that he had been sleeping with Ziva for the whole summer when Gibbs was away. Maybe Ziva forgot about the night she asked me in a whisper if I believed that Tony loved Jeanne, the hurt raw in her features. Maybe Tony doesn't remember another drunken night after we got the news that Ziva was onboard the Damacles.

_I think I was in love with her, Tim._

He had used my first name - always a sign that he is serious. I had cared about Ziva, too. But Tony? I actually believe that he really did love her; is still in love with her.

Which, really, is the only way I can justify helping him hack into her medical records a couple of months ago after our return from Somalia.

It's not something of which I am proud. I'm not sure I can justify my actions even now. Tony wasn't the only one worried about Ziva and she was keeping silent. All I can say now is that I wish I had never seen what was in those files.

I had been there. I saw her face when the first flicker of belief that she would survive crossed her features. I was there when she cried out and collapsed against Tony's chest frantically trying to shield her light deprived eyes from the shock of the searing desert sunlight. And I course, I saw the wounded, desperate look that haunted her features during her waking hours of our return to American soil.

Most likely, the reason I chose to grant Tony's request was because I knew how desperate he was to help her. To understand her. To make sense of what she might have endured. The desperation of a lover, not a co-worker.

For those reasons I conspired with Tony to violate Ziva's privacy in the worst way.

Both of us were stunned into speechlessness, skimming the first few pages before Tony finally found his voice.

_There's only one reason she was given a pregnancy test and an STD screen, McGee. Close the file._

We never spoke of what we uncovered, and I suspect that Ziva has remained silent as well. Even though their bickering seems to be returning to normal, I have noticed that Tony is particularly gentle toward Ziva and likewise, she is softer and allows his kindness. Especially, if they believe no one is watching.

Sometimes, I find myself studying her. Wondering about her. Imagining a world where a woman like Ziva has found herself on both ends of the torture spectrum. I write about it often, although this story will never cross my editor's desk.

Maybe Tony and Ziva need to play this game with each other. Maybe they need to go back to something familiar in order to move forward. Maybe it's strictly to protect themselves from the wrath of Gibbs were he were to discover they violated rule twelve years ago and are most likely doing so now - although I find it difficult to believe that Gibbs would be that naïve.

I suppose for now I will keep the lid on their little charade. Like I said, when they are torturing each other they leave me alone.

Not to mention, I now have a considerable advantage in the game of blackmail should their united forces to torture me get out of hand.

* * *

A/N - Meh.. I'm not in love with, this, but it's been tumbling around in my head for a few days so I decided to write it. Reviews are welcomed and appreciated. Thanks for reading!


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